


When He Was Ruth

by x_art



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:39:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8533420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: He felt as if he were working before a mirror that reflected only himself. He couldn’t wait to heal the girl. He couldn’t wait to be gone, on to wherever Bennett sent them next.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AUish sequel to a yet unposted work. Please see the end note for an explanation.

 

 

 

 

 

 ___________________________

 

Tomas smiled as the girl behind the counter gave him the change with a soft, “Cheers.”

Not wanting to insult her, he pocketed the coins without counting them and then picked up his groceries. It was foolish, of course. The last time he’d been to this particular market, he’d returned home only to realize he’d been shortchanged by almost two pounds. Marcus had things to say about that, including, _‘Those people may look innocent but you can trust them about as far as you can throw them.’_ When Tomas had said he doubted he could throw anyone more than three feet, Marcus had returned with a bitter, _‘Ha, ha. Listen, it wouldn’t matter if you were the Holy Father himself, they’re crooks and they’re gonna rip you off.’_

Tomas had argued that even if it had been intentional, it wasn’t a large amount of money, especially as the store owner and his daughter clearly had so little. Marcus’s reply was a swift, ‘ _You’re too soft, Tomas. And they know it.’_

That conversation would have ended badly, except Tomas had yielded the floor by going to the kitchen to wash the dishes. By the time he’d finished, his own fleeting anger was gone, replaced by unasked questions and unspoken suppositions.

Even given past history, why did Marcus hate his own people with so much passion? The minute they’d landed in Heathrow, Marcus’s mood had soured, his responses to Tomas’s comments and questions relegated to short, one-syllable answers, if he answered at all. The train trip north had been more of the same—at one point, Tomas thought he might as well be traveling alone.

It had helped that Bennett had prepared the way for them—when they’d arrived in Ketterly, they started work immediately. Marcus, Tomas had found, wasn’t good at waiting on the sidelines. He needed to be active and doing, so by the second night at the Allen’s house, he had been too busy for anything but expelling the demon from little Sophie Allen.

Tomas, for his part, had tried to understand mostly because he himself wasn’t the best company. For the first time since they began this odd journey, he felt removed from the process and followed Marcus’s instructions and direction mechanically. He wasn’t sure but he thought his mood might be affected by the age and fragility of their patient.

Little Sophie Allen was the girl’s name, almost literally. She’d just turned eleven and had thick gold hair and dark blue eyes. Everyone in the town knew her; everyone in town seemed to know why he and Marcus were there. Most didn’t believe, a few did, but they all asked after the girl and when they did, they always prefaced her name with the word, ‘little.’

_‘How’s little Sophie?’_ they’d inquire, followed by, _‘It’s probably just stress, you know she has a muscular condition,’_ or _‘She hit her head last year; it’s just a bad headache.’_ The addition of ‘little’ was so universal that Tomas caught himself using it as well: ‘ _Little Sophie is doing better today, thank you for asking.’_

Whatever his feelings or lack thereof, he felt as if he were working before a mirror that reflected only himself. He couldn’t wait to heal the girl. He couldn’t wait to be gone, on to wherever Bennett sent them next.

***

Their temporary apartment was quiet when he opened the door and placed the keys and his cell on the shelf above the coat rack. The Church and St. Mary’s had arranged for the rental, saying there were issues with the plumbing, furnace and hot water heater. Marcus had just shrugged and said they wouldn’t be using the flat that much, anyway, so who cared?

Tomas cared. He wouldn’t have thought he’d care so much, but he did. He hated the cold showers and the sound the pipes made when the water was turned on full. He hated the apartment’s interior, painted a drab tan that matched the drab furniture. Even the bedroom was depressing with its narrow bed, dresser and draperies that had been tacked to the window frame with bent nails. _Beggars can’t be choosers,_ he’d reminded himself more than a few times. Humility and gratitude had been and was a part of his life, but he couldn’t stop comparing the _then_ to _now._

The apartment’s only saving grace was the large bay window that faced west and caught the afternoon sun. Marcus had taken one look at it and flopped down on the sofa. _‘Here we go,’_ he’d said, _‘I’m spending all my free time here.’_

Marcus had been true to his word and Tomas walked over to the sofa, knowing what he’d find.

Asleep on his back, Marcus had one arm over his head, the other over his chest. He’d eaten a papaya—the plate, seeds and knife were on the chair next to the mute CD player.

He examined Marcus, noting the healing scratches on his throat and exposed wrists, the bruise on his chin. Little Sophie had quite a left hook and very sharp fingernails. Her parents had been horrified, but Marcus had laughed it off, saying it was a good sign because it meant the girl’s spirit was still strong. Tomas hadn’t found it funny and he’d told Marcus so, jammed in the Allen’s tiny bathroom as he’d applied hydrogen peroxide to the cuts. Marcus had covered his hands and said he’d had far worse. Wanting to kiss him but unable to because the Allens were ten feet away, Tomas had shrugged and went back to what he was doing.

Frowning at the memory, he turned and tiptoed to the kitchen.

***

Apples, oranges, oatmeal, milk, and beer, he unpacked the groceries and set them on the countertop. When he was done, he went to the stove and lifted the kettle’s lid.

They had left the Allen’s at one, splitting up at the corner of Green Meadows and Victoria. Marcus had gone on to the apartment while Tomas had run to the store. He hadn’t realized he’d taken that long because in the time he’d been gone, Marcus had started a soup

He breathed in the lovely scent of chicken and vegetables. During their first month together, still in Mexico City and getting used to each other, Marcus had been surprised to find that Tomas hated _menudo_ and loved chicken soup. It went against his heritage, Marcus had said. Chicken soup was for any and all, Campbell’s was proof. Tomas had rolled his eyes because it was so illogical. Marcus’s response was to tackle him, pushing him up against the wall, hands already busy. They’d made love right there in the kitchen with the bright sun shining all around them.

Then and now, such a stark contrast. Tomas lowered the lid and went to the bedroom.

***

With no real agenda, he exchanged what had become his non-official uniform of trousers and a black button-down, for jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He was still pulling the shirt over his head when he heard a knock on the door. Hurrying before the knock became a pounding and then ringing, he opened the door. He didn’t sigh, though he wanted to. “Hello, Thomas.”

Nine-year old Thomas Griffith was standing in the hall holding a baseball glove and a ball. Today, he was wearing a baseball cap with a big ‘T’ stitched on the crown. “Are you coming out, Father?” he asked.

Tomas held his finger to his lips and looked over his shoulder. “Quietly, please.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and repeated in loud whisper, “Are you coming to play with us? Evan brought his baseball bat and Charlotte and Owen made us some bases out of their mum’s towels.”

Tomas hesitated. Thomas was a sweet boy who’d attached himself with surprising immediacy when they’d moved into the apartment. His mother worked days and the father wasn’t in the picture. The attachment was reinforced by the fact that they shared a name and both loved baseball. He had tried to keep the boy at arm’s length but it was impossible—Thomas was lonely and persistent.

So, impossible, and Tomas nodded. “Let me get my shoes and jacket.”

***

“Are you using Mrs. Martin’s good towels because she won’t be happy with that,” Tomas said, holding the door open for Thomas.

“No,” Thomas answered impertinently, as if Tomas had questioned whether the sky was blue or not. And then, a little more graciously, he added, “No, it’s just some old towels Charlotte found in the garage.”

“Good.” They should use the crosswalk but the park was just across the street and it was so cold. He touched Thomas’s shoulder and gestured to the curb. “Thomas?”

Thomas tossed the ball from his mitt to his hand. “Yeah?”

“You do know Marcus and I will be leaving soon, maybe at the end of the month, yes?”

Thomas nodded and tossed the ball again, this time from hand to mitt. “I know.”

They stepped out onto the street. Automatically, Tomas looked left and right, a pointless exercise because there was no traffic. The town was relatively quiet up until five or six and even then, rush hour lasted about forty-five minutes. “I don’t want you to be sad when we go.”

“I won’t be,” Thomas said, lunging for the ball when he missed the catch. “Mum said the same thing and I told her when I grow up, I’m going to go to America and be a famous baseball player. You can come to my games.”

Nodding to a young woman with a stroller, Tomas had to smile. The boy had such confidence for a child, especially given he’d been the witness to what sounded like a difficult divorce and had no siblings. “All right. I’ll give you the address of my mentor—he’ll be able to forward your letters.”

“Don’t you have email?”

Tomas laughed out loud. He’d been spending so much time in areas without any kind of internet and only sporadic cell service that he’d actually forgotten. “I do. I’ll give you my email address.” The other children were already on the field playing what looked to be a mix of cricket and baseball. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll race you to the pitcher’s mound.”

With a shout, Thomas took off, leaving Tomas to chase after.

***

“No, they can’t.”

“Yes, they can.”

“No, they can’t!”

“Kids,” Tomas said, juggling Mrs. Martin’s towels and a couple bats. “I’m sure that it’s true that the Hufflepuffs can hold their own against the Gryffindors.” He hoped he got the pronunciation right. He’d never read the Harry Potter books nor seen the movies but Luis had filled him in with the main themes.

Evidently he _had_ gotten the pronunciation right, because Charlotte Martin ignored him and shook her head. “But they _can’t._ Gryffindors are far more clever and more powerful than Hufflepuffs.”

Charlotte’s little brother, Owen chimed in, “Yeah, they are!”

Thomas stopped in his tracks. His face reddened and he said, his voice rising, “No, they’re not! You’re so mean, Lottie! I hope you—”

“Hey,” Tomas interrupted, shifting his armload. “It’s all right, Thomas. It’s just a difference of opinion.” Kneeling, he ducked his head, trying to catch Thomas’s gaze, then glanced around at the children to make sure they were listening. “We all have those, and a lot of times it doesn’t mean one is right and someone else is wrong.”

Thomas wouldn’t look up. “Yes, it does.”

He smiled at Thomas’s stubborn, crabby tone. In a way, the boy reminded him of Marcus—fair skin, blue eyes, an intense sureness about him as if he knew everything. “Actually, you can be right and so can Charlotte. Our differences aren’t what matters.” He sat back on his heels and examined his flock of five. “For example, do you all dislike Voldemort?”

As one, the children smiled and shouted, “Yes!”

“There you go.” He gestured with the bats. “You have that in common, yes?”

There was another chorus, this time less enthusiastic because it was clear they didn’t quite get it. That was okay—at least they weren’t arguing anymore. He stood up. As if that were their cue, the children scattered and began throwing the ball back and forth again. All except for Thomas—he started walking towards the street, almost stomping.

“Hey,” Tomas said, catching up. “Tomorrow is Saturday—if I’m not busy, maybe you can tell me more about these Hufflepuffs.”

Thomas looked up, his face brightening as if Tomas had said he was giving him a trip to see the White Sox play. Thomas reached up and unable to do anything else, Tomas took his hand.

Together they followed the other kids across the park.

It might have been a mistake to have brought up Voldemort. It was important for the children to learn about tolerance and forgiveness and one didn’t need an arch-enemy to learn that lesson. Next time —if there even was a next time—he’d do better and concentrate on the positive, not the negative.

They were almost to the sidewalk when something, like a touch on the back of his neck or a silent call, made Tomas look up. Marcus was standing in the bay window, watching them. Tomas’s stomach warmed and his mood brightened, just like that. _No better than a nine-year old,_ he thought as called the children to him, then asked, “All right, what do we do when we get to a street crossing?”

“Look both ways,” came the chorus.

He smiled and squeezed Thomas’s hand. “That’s right, look both ways.”

***

Marcus was no longer at the window when Tomas got to the apartment. He glanced in the bedroom and kitchen and—heart quickening—then went to the sofa. Déjà vu, though this time Marcus was awake and smiling up at him. Tomas sat on the edge of the sofa. “Hello.”

“ _Hola_.”

Tomas ran his thumb along the neat line of Marcus’s beard. While he’d been out playing with the kids, Marcus had showered and shaved. He’d also changed clothes and was wearing Tomas’s black sweater. “You look like a cat, sleeping in the sun.”

Marcus covered his hand. “Shall I purr for you?”

Tomas leaned down and brushed his lips against Marcus’s. “You can do whatever you want.” He licked his lip. “Hmm… You taste good. Like papaya.”

“Want more?”

“Yes, please.”

Marcus wrapped his hand around Tomas’s neck and tugged.

They kissed, light and soft at first and then not.

It was odd—Tomas wasn’t new to kissing or sex though he once could count on one hand how many times he’d engaged in the latter. But, kissing Marcus was like kissing sex itself and he shivered. “You feel good.” He wished he could melt into Marcus, just blend into his heat because it was so cold here, so cold and sad and gray.

“And you’re chilled from all that fresh air you insist on having,” Marcus said, scooting back. “Here. Come down here properly and let me take care of that.”

The sofa was a floral relic of the eighties and not that big but Tomas made no objections. He let himself be pulled down, let himself be arranged until he was half on Marcus, their legs entwined, trading lazy kisses.

“How were they today?” Marcus asked.

“Fine. They got in an argument about Harry Potter.”

“Who’s he? Some new kid?”

Tomas stopped kissing so he could laugh, his breath mingling with Marcus’s. “You can’t be serious?”

“I’m totally serious,” Marcus said, gaze on Tomas’s mouth. “Who is he?”

“Harry Potter is a character from a movie and a book. There are maybe a dozen of them.”

“Books or movies or Harry Potters?”

“Marcus.”

“All right,” Marcus relented with a wide grin. “I may have heard of one but not a dozen. It seems a little excessive, don’t you think?”

“You are ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love my ridiculousness.”

_‘That isn’t a word,’_ Tomas wanted to say but didn’t because it was true—he loved Marcus’s sense of humor, his sense of the ridiculous. Both were shields against fear and depression when he grew despondent about the state of the world, about the evil that seemed to be gaining ground even though Marcus assured him it was not.

As if following the path of Tomas’s thoughts, Marcus’s smile softened. He traced a line down Tomas’s shoulder and back. “Did you lock the door?”

“Yes.”

“Because I don’t want any rug rats breaking in like before.”

Tomas lay his head on Marcus’s shoulder. “No more rug rats. And it’s not ‘breaking in,’ if the door isn’t locked.”

Marcus snorted softly and then said, “Are you all right?”

A change of subject that wasn’t really a change because it was generally the first thing Marcus asked when they found a moment alone during an exorcism. “I should be the one asking you that. You’re doing most of the work.”

Marcus shrugged. “Compared to others, this is a walk in the park.”

Rubbing his temple against the hard curve of Marcus’s collar bone, Tomas hid his frown. After the week they’d had, a _‘walk in the park’_ wouldn’t be his first description or his second.

“Tomas?” Marcus craned his neck to look down at Tomas. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, “I just never thought I’d find myself measuring the comparative values of demonic possession.”

“Ah,” Marcus settled back down. “Yeah, it’s not fun when you realize that some of these bastards just want to see how far they can take it.”

“Do you really think that’s all it is?”

“I think this one came into our world, weak and helpless, looking for the same. When it met Sophie’s fierce spirit, it realized it didn’t stand a chance so it stuck around to mess her up. The wanker.”

Tomas shrugged. Even he, still a neophyte at all this, could sense that whatever demon had hold of little Sophie, it was weak and ineffectual, able to do little. Beyond scarring her and her parents for life, of course.

“What else is bothering you?”

“Nothing.”

“Tomas,” Marcus said again, this time in that tone that said, ‘ _You might as well tell me because I don’t believe you and I’ll keep at it until you spill.’_

Tomas ran his finger along the ragged shoulder seam of his sweater, coming to a small ridge. He’d caught it on a splinter weeks ago and had torn a hole in it. Marcus had mended it that night, bent over because the lamp’s bulb was weak, singing softly to one of his songs on the CD player. “It’s nothing.”

Marcus stroked his temple. “We won’t be much longer. It’s on the run, I can feel it.”

He kissed Marcus’s fingers; they tasted of papaya, too. “And then?

“And then we can go back home for a bit. You can get a bit of sun and I can meet with Bennett to discuss our next steps.”

The idea was sweet, but somewhat pointless. “Chicago is probably colder than here right now. No sun.”

“I was thinking home as in Mexico City, not Lawndale. Would you like that?”

Surprised, he looked up. Just the idea of being back in Mexico, if only for a week or so… He could almost feel the weight from the gray sky and bare trees dissipate, and he stretched to give Marcus a kiss that hurt. “Yes,” he said. “Very much so.” Another kiss for good measure and then he settled back down with a deep sigh.

“Yeah,” Marcus murmured, “I thought that would make you smile.”

“It does.”

Marcus tugged on his ear. “Are you hungry? Can dinner wait?”

Familiar words that shaped the glimmer of desire into the real thing and he ran his hand down Marcus’s side and slipped his fingers under the black sweater. Marcus gasped. “Dinner can wait,” Tomas said, “but it’s cold out here.” He got up, drawing Marcus with him, hoping no one in this sleepy town was watching, knowing that the park shielded them from everything but the birds.

He led the way to the bedroom with Marcus close behind. As soon as they crossed the threshold, they stripped and got under the covers. Marcus pulled him close and Tomas shuddered at the contrast between the frigid sheets and Marcus, so warm and smooth.

“I missed this,” Marcus muttered, nudging Tomas’s head so he could get at his neck.

Tomas smiled helplessly and curled his hand around Marcus’s skull, urging him on. “It’s been a four days.”

“When it comes to you, four days might as well be a year, a decade…” Marcus rubbed Tomas’s belly and hip. “…a millennium.”

He lost his smile as Marcus bit his earlobe. Nerve endings firing, he arched, unable to hold back a tiny groan even though the walls were thin and they had to be as quiet as possible.

It was never going to be enough, he thought as Marcus moved down, his clever mouth doing clever things. This all-consuming feeling never lasted long enough, was _real_ enough.

Still, when Marcus slipped on top, Tomas pushed the sadness away and let his body’s instincts take over. He spread his legs and ran his hands over Marcus’s back, shivering when Marcus’s crucifix slid across his chest. Marcus reached down between their bodies and with a deep, conscious breath, Tomas closed his eyes and tried not to think.

***

The sun, he’d found, seemed to move slower in England. He knew it was a product of the physical world but it was so strange that when he left Marcus, cocooned beneath the comforter, the room was swimming in that half-light even though it was almost six.

Washing in cold water because he didn’t want to wake Marcus up, Tomas swore under his breath and then went to get dressed again. He carried his sneakers out to the living room and was thinking about dinner when his cell rang. He grabbed it, answering, “Hello?” without looking at the display.

“You sound out of breath. Are you running?”

“Olivia. No, not running.” He shut the bedroom door gently. “How are you?”

“Good. Is this an okay time to talk?”

He went to the sofa and sat down. “Yes, of course. Are you on your lunch break?” He put on one sneaker and then the other.

“If you can call it that.”

There was a loud hum in the background. It lowered and then Olivia was back, “Sorry. It’s Bill’s birthday and they’re having cake and ice cream in the break room.”

“Which Bill?”

“You know, the one with the wife who asked you to help her—”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah, Bill and Sheila.” Sheila Mortensen had come to him for assistance in convincing her husband to try in vitro fertilization. It had been one of his last undertakings before he’d left St. Anthony’s. “How is she?”

“Very pregnant.”

“Really? That was fast.”

“Tell me about it. I think they’re still in shock.”

“Give them my congratulations.”

“I will,” Olivia said. “And, how are you?”

“Fine. I’m in England, now.”

“England, huh? How’s that?”

“Cold and gray.”

“And the case?”

“A little girl.”

“Oh, _pobrecita_ ,” she sighed. “That must be tough.”

He nodded again. “It is, but she’s a fighter. Marcus says…” He trailed off. Olivia hated talking about the exorcisms as much as she hated talking about Marcus.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said, and he could almost hear the wince in her tone. “Anyway, I called about Luis.”

He sat up straight. “Is he okay?”

“Sorry, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that he’s going to be in the Thanksgiving Day play. It will be his first.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Olivia…”

“Flights to Chicago are cheap. I looked them up. We can split the cost—”

“No.”

“Tomas—”

“Olivia!”

He hadn’t shouted but it was a near thing and when she spoke again, her voice was small, “Luis misses you. _I_ miss you.”

“I know.” He had a headache; when he got off the phone, he’d take some ibuprofen.

“I went to St. Anthony’s last Sunday. The new priest is such a joke. Mrs. Finley skipped a whole section of _Ave Maria_ and he didn’t even notice.”

“Please don’t.”

She was quiet for a moment and then she said, “This is your _home,_ Tomas.”

He stopped rubbing his forehead and looked up. A flock of birds was flying above the tree tops. As if following an invisible command, they turned sharply and disappeared from view. “Do you remember when Mom and Papa split up?”

“Of course, I do. It was horrible.”

“It was, but you got to stay in the States. I had—”

“That wasn’t my fault, Tomas. I wan—”

Olivia’s voice had risen, and he interrupted, “No, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t blame you. I didn’t blame Mom.”

“Who did you blame? _Abuelita?_ She was the one that convinced Mom to send you to her. _”_

“Of course not,” he said quickly, remembering ‘ _Is that who you blame when things go wrong?’_ “I was just so young and when I went to Mexico, I—” He shook his head, unable to say how it had felt to be in a new home, a new school, living with a grandmother he’d never met.

“You were homesick.”

He chuckled, feeling as if a thin layer of ice was forming around his heart. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“So what you’re saying is that Chicago isn’t your home?”

“It isn’t, because it couldn’t be. I would have been miserable, otherwise.”

“And Mexico City?”

He’d tried, but Mexico City had held the hint of home, not the flavor. “I think the point is, I don’t have a home. Not a real one.”

Olivia was silent, and then she said, “You just broke my heart, Tomas.”

He shrugged even though she couldn’t see it. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“I know.”

“It was a long time ago, Olivia. I don’t think about it anymore.”

“Lying’s a sin—remember?”

He smiled, wanting to say, _‘What’s one more?’_ but that would bring them dangerously close to the conversation they’d been tiptoeing around for five months, so he just said, “I know.”

When she spoke next, her voice was even and calm, “And me and Luis?”

“You and I were apart for most of our lives. You’ll be fine. As for Luis, he will miss me but he’ll get used to my absence. Besides, it’s not like I won’t see you guys again. I’ll be back, probably sooner rather than later.”

“And your friend? Will you be bringing him, too?”

_‘Your friend.’_ Olivia always called Marcus, _‘your friend.’_ “I’m not sure what his plans are.” _And yet another lie. “_ The Church might send us to Mexico soon.”

“Mexico, huh?”

“Maybe you and Luis can visit?”

If she realized it was an olive branch, she didn’t say so—she just mused, “Yeah, that might be fun. I’d like to show him _Abuelita’s_ house.”

“And we can introduce him to his cousins.”

“That would be nice. Okay, I’ll think about it.” She hesitated once more. “I have to go—they’re almost done out there.”

“All right.”

“You’re taking care of yourself, right?”

“I am.”

“Good.”

“Say hi to Luis for me.”

“I will. Say hi to your friend for me.”

“I will.”

“When you move, email me if you can’t call.”

“I will. Send me the video of Luis’s play.”

“I will.”

“ _Te amo_.”

This time there were tears in her voice when she spoke and he smiled, barely, “I love you, too. Call me, okay?”

Before he could respond, he heard a burst of distant laugher and then she hung up.

He set the cell on the sofa.

“Was that Olivia?”

He turned. Marcus was in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the jamb. He was wearing shorts and nothing else. “Yes, it was.”

Marcus curled one arm about his chest in that way he did. “How is she?”

“Fine.” Tomas got up. “Luis is going to be in a school play.”

“What’s his part?”

He went around and sat on the back of the sofa. “I forgot to ask.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah.”

“Tomas?”

“Yes?”

“I talked to Bennett yesterday.”

He looked up. “You did?”

“He’s concerned that we don’t have enough soldiers in this particular war. He offered me a position in Rome, training other exorcists.”

So Marcus might be leaving to go to Italy; the ice around Tomas’s heart thickened. “What did you say?”

“That I’d think about it.” Marcus shrugged. “After I talked to you, of course.”

There was maybe ten feet between him and Marcus but it suddenly felt as if it were a hundred. “I see.”

“He told me something else.”

“Yes?” His hands were cold and he stuffed them in his pockets.

“Yeah. He told me that Pope Sebastian is going to announce the new edict on celibacy.”

Tomas frowned, his own displeasure forgotten in an instant. “He is? I thought it was shelved for the time being. He said the American bishops would fight him tooth and nail.”

“Apparently,” Marcus said with a shrug, “he decided that demons or no, it’s time to move forward. It makes sense spiritually and practically. He feels that celibacy is wrong, and the number of men entering the priesthood is rapidly dwindling, so…” He shrugged again. “It’s time.”

Tomas frowned at the floor, thinking about the news. When he’d been young and the idea of priesthood had been just a daydream, the requirement of celibacy had been a draw, not a barrier. The notion of giving himself completely to God, body and soul, had seemed romantic, like he was a knight in a fairy tale on a quest. As he’d gotten older, he’d realized his point of view had been naive, to say the least.

“You’re thinking of Jessica.”

He looked up. “What? No.” When Marcus said nothing, Tomas added insistently, “I’m not.”

Marcus shifted his weight. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. How many times do we have to ha—” He hesitated, taking in Marcus’s body language, his closed-off expression. “You thought,” he said slowly, “when you heard the news, that this would change something for me.”

“Won’t it?”

“Of course not.”

“She still writes to you.”

“That is her, not me.”

“Are you sure?” Marcus repeated, his voice hard like rock. “I mean, are really sure?”

“How can you say these things?”

Marcus straightened up. “How can I say them? How can I not, Tomas!” He made a sharp cutting motion and pushed away from the door frame. “You’re not happy, a blind man can see it. You barely talk when we’re at the Allen’s. You won’t touch me unless we’re in that fucking bedr—”

“Hey,” Tomas said, getting to his feet, welcoming the hot anger. “That’s not fair. Just because I don’t want to have sex where anyone can see, doesn’t mean—” He lowered his voice and made his own gesture, one filled with weeks of frustration. “Yes, I’m unhappy, but it’s not you. It’s not—” He shook his head. “I hate it here. It’s so cold and gray, and poor Casey isn’t getting any better.”

Marcus cocked his head, his gaze sharpening. “You mean poor Sophie, right? Poor _Sophie_ isn’t getting any better?”

Tomas froze. “What did I say?” he asked, though he already knew—the words were ringing in his ears.

“You said _‘Casey isn’t getting any better.’_ ” Marcus nodded thoughtfully. “They’ve all been boys, our other victims. Sophie is the first girl.”

Tomas sat back down on the sofa. He hadn’t realized… He’d assumed his distraction was due to the weather, the people, not this one, clearly obvious thing.

“You’re worried you’re going to fail again.” Marcus said.

He thought about the hours with little Sophie and her family, standing off to the side, afraid to get too close. “I—” he began, unable to finish.

“You think the demon is going to trick you again.”

Tomas scrubbed at his mouth, the memory reviving the shock of that moment. It almost made him sick. He looked up, wincing as if he were looking into the sun. “What if it does?”

Marcus came over and stood right in front of Tomas. “It won’t.”

He was shaking, just a bit, and it could either be the cold or… “How can you know?”

Marcus cupped Tomas’s jaw, his voice tender when he said, “Because you’re on the watch for it now. Because you’re strong and resilient. Because I won’t let it get to you, not again.”

“And you trust me?”

Marcus smiled and edged between Tomas’s legs. “Without doubt and more than anything.” He kissed Tomas’s forehead, murmuring, “If I make a pun about you being a doubting Thomas, will you punch me?”

Tomas answered by tipping his head up. They kissed, just a brief press of mouth to mouth. He was tired, but the shaking was gone, replaced by a light, airy feeling.

“It won’t make a difference,” Marcus murmured, touching Tomas’s throat.

“What won’t?”

“This celibacy edict—it won’t make a difference. We won’t be able to marry, not like normal men.”

“I know.”

“We’ll still be pariahs as far as most of Vatican City is concerned. Bennett won’t be able to shield us if anyone finds out.”

Marcus was no longer talking about the edict and Tomas shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is God and he’s proven that he is on our side. Every time we heal someone, he is telling us he loves us. Of _that,_ I have no doubts.”

Marcus smiled, his eyes shining. “I can’t wait to tell Bennett. He’ll love it.”

“He thinks I’m bad for you.”

“Yeah, but I _know_ you’re good for me.”

Tomas couldn’t help a small grin as he slipped his arms around Marcus’s waist. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

“Charnwood Forest.” It was a lie—he’d been thinking only of how foolish he’d been, how clueless. This idea was a spur-of-the-moment decision, brought on by cool relief and a renewed sense of purpose.

“Charnwood—” Marcus cocked his head and frowned. “What are you on about?”

Tomas leaned back. “Charnwood Forest. Before we leave England, I want to visit it.”

Still frowning, Marcus shifted from foot to foot. And then he paused, his eyes narrowing. “It’s nothing much. You’ll be disappointed.”

“Possibly,” Tomas said. “But I want to see it. When we’re done, we can go to Leicestershire.” _No more hiding, Marcus, for either of us._

Marcus groaned, a clearly fake protest. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s not ‘Lay-kester-shire.’ It’s ‘Lestershire.”

Tomas curled his leg around Marcus’s long thigh. “But that makes no sense,” he said, running his hands up Marcus’s sides, loving the way Marcus shivered and sucked in his belly. “It’s spelled like it should be: Lekester—”

Marcus put his hand over Tomas’s mouth. “Stop, you’re killing me.”

Tomas bit Marcus palm. His reward was a kiss that left him bent back over the sofa and the both of them breathless.

When they drew apart, Marcus’s face was flushed and Tomas’s heart was pounding.

“So,” Marcus said, looking a little dazed. “Charnwood Forest, eh?”

“Hm, mm.”

“Yeah, all right. It’s a few hours away. We can go for a walk and visit this pub I know.”

“Sounds good.”

“And you’re worrying too much—Sophie’s doing fine. We’ll be another week at the most. I’m sure of it.”

“Okay.”

Dazed expression fading, Marcus stroked Tomas’s eyebrow with his thumb and then kissed him again. “I know what you’re doing.”

Tomas’s smile was mostly rueful. “Marcus—”

He had started to say, ‘ _even I don’t know what I’m doing,’_ but that wasn’t quite true, not anymore. “Do you remember that you once told me we work in the dark but live in the light?”

“I do.”

“I didn’t understand then, but I think I do now.”

“And?”

Tomas smiled sweetly, easing his fingers under the elastic band of Marcus’s shorts. “And, you’ll get your answer when we come back in a day or two. It’s almost seven and you told the Allens we’d—”

“Be back by eight,” Marcus finished for him with mock disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“So it’s payback for my transgressions time.”

He slipped his hand lower. “It is.”

“Tease.”

“You have got that right.”

“Okay. One more for the road, then.” This time Marcus’s kiss was reverent and Tomas drank it in, eyes closed, giving back in full.

He’d been wrong. Marcus and Olivia had been wrong, too. He did have a home, a space so new and fragile he was almost afraid to test it, name it. It had been created months ago by brash sentiment, maintained by love, and fortified by faith: _Where you go, I will go; where you stay I will stay…_

Like all good epiphanies, the truth of the moment became a note that went on and on, and he caught himself thinking, _No more now and then; only this and this and this…_

 

_fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to an unposted work. I normally don't post stories out of order but I think this one can be read on its own. If little bits of info with no explanation bother you, you might want to wait for the first story. The latter is much longer and is taking me a while to edit. I'm working on having it finished in a couple weeks. 
> 
> Also, this story is set in the near future, after the incident with the Rances. Enjoy:)


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